“COWBOY BOB” PETRI

“Before Bob passed away, I quietly asked him one evening, as Joleen and Dianne were talking, if he was prepared to meet his maker.”

Bob and Dianne Petri

I consider myself a low-key kind of guy rather than an “out there” person, as some folks like to be. In high school, the only classmates who knew my name were friends.  In one class, midway through the year, I had an English teacher ask, “Are you a new student?”

Church finds me the same way. I’ll be the last to enter and the first to leave, which has been my modus operandi going way back. In the late 1950s, at around five years of age, I left Sunday School on my own to hike miles to a convenience store and buy a candy bar with tithe money. That incident is in a story I wrote called “Escape from Sel-Mont Baptist.”

This article isn’t about me; it’s about a new friend I made and how unfortunate it was that we didn’t get to spend more time together. This lies more on my shoulders than anyone, because of being too reserved, even in belonging to my car club, Lake Havasu Mopars.

Bob Petri is the initiator of this club, and after my wife and I joined, he and Esther Smith-Arnst were the first to welcome us aboard. The club hosted several cruises and pizza get-togethers, and we attended a few events. I was starting to warm up to the members and felt comfortable talking cars, shop, politics, and even religion.

Bob Petri was an expert body man and car restorer, preferring Pontiacs and Oldsmobiles over all other makes. He did them all, though, and was recognized for his outstanding work by numerous trophies in his garage. His ‘man’s cave’ is like a museum, filled with model cars and model WWII airplanes hanging from the ceiling.

Joleen quickly became friends with Bob’s wife, Dianne, and, on occasion, I started to think solely for kidnapping her and Bob’s cute little dog, Lucy. My wife loves that dog almost as much as the one we lost. As time went on, we started going to Cars N Coffee with the club, which is held at Rotary Park behind the baseball fields on the first and third Sundays of each month.

I found Bob to be just the opposite of me, very outgoing and welcoming, although we both shared a love of automobiles and WWII airplanes, especially the P-38 Lightning.

When I asked Bob if he knew who Major Richard Ira Bong was, he immediately saw that I knew my P-38s. Major Bong was the top fighter ace from WWII, and he flew the P-38. I’ve been a P-38 aficionado going back to grade school.

Sadly, cancer took Bob from us, and Lake Havasu City lost a great supporter of this town as well as a beloved resident. At his memorial service at Leitz-Fraze, there were a good number of hot rods brought by Bob and Dianne’s friends and car club members.

Bob’s own navy blue and vibrant yellow Dodge Charger 392 Hemi Scat Pack was there, and I’m sure he was ‘looking’ down’ to make sure no one left fingerprints on the recently waxed paint. I wore an almost identical colored shirt that I’ve owned since the 1980s to commemorate my friend.

Before Bob passed away, I quietly asked him one evening, as Joleen and Dianne were talking, if he was prepared to meet his maker. With a smile, a grasp of my hand, Bob told me that he was. That brought a smile to my face. I want all of my friends to know Jesus Christ, and for those who don’t, this makes me sad.

I wrote a song for Bob titled “Cowboy Bob” Petri. It’s on YouTube, and if I can say so myself, it came out perfectly. I feel as if I had heavenly help with writing the lyrics.

In this song, I interject a little humor, saying that if there are garages in Heaven, Bob Petri is already making his bigger. Gearheads will know what I’m talkin’ about, especially those livin’ in Lake Havasu City. As much as I now know Bob, his garage will definitely be large enough to hold a P-38 Lightning.

Joleen and I are going to miss Bob but are happy that he made a life changing decision in choosing Jesus Christ, as Saviour. That is the most important decision that a gearhead, or any person can make!

Amen

Robert “Bob” Petri

LAKE OF FIRE

“I was interested to see what Miss Purdy, my AI assistant, would have to say about Hell and its anticipated temperature.”

Family of four on lake beach with sun umbrella and boats in background
Rotary Beach – Lake Havasu City, Arizona

I heard someone use the expression “hotter than hell” the other day for the umpteenth time. Friends and family have uttered it, including me, although I now refrain for two reasons: I don’t plan on going, and I don’t know exactly how hot Hell is temperature-wise.

The Bible does not provide a specific temperature for Hell, but it contains several verses that describe Hell in vivid, metaphorical language, emphasizing suffering and torment rather than exact measurements.

I chose one for my representation: Luke 16:24 – “And he called out, ‘Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the end of his finger in water and cool my tongue, for I am in anguish in this flame.”

While this verse does not specify an exact temperature, they collectively portray Hell as a place of extreme heat, suffering, and eternal punishment in biblical literature. I’ll use my own interpretation here and say it’s far higher than the absolute hottest temperature ever recorded in Arizona, which is 128°F (53.3°C).

This scorching record occurred in Lake Havasu City on June 29, 1994. My family and I were here on vacation and survived it, of course, with plenty of water and Holiday Inn hotel air-conditioning.

I was interested to see what Miss Purdy, my AI assistant, would have to say about Hell and its anticipated temperature.

“The phrase ‘hotter than hell’ has its roots in the everyday expression used to describe extreme heat. It merges two concepts: the physical sensation of heat and the metaphor of Hell as a place of torment and suffering, often depicted in literature and cultural references as a fiery, unbearable environment.

Literary and musical works have also helped solidify the phrase’s place in popular culture. Songs, movies, and books have employed this vivid expression to convey strong sentiments, making it a familiar idiom in everyday language. The phrase effectively captures the urgency of extreme heat, making it a memorable way to express discomfort.”

Overall, “hotter than hell” has evolved into a colorful phrase within English vernacular, symbolizing both physical and emotional extremes. Regardless, the term has far more serious meaning to me than that.

Having seen metal melt while welding and experienced the sizzle and smell of frying skin after absentmindedly touching an uncooled section, even the hottest Havasu summer temps is a walk in the park compared to that type of heat.

A friend in Alabama told me that the heat won’t get you there; it’s the humidity. I’d say folks currently living in Hell, and I’m not talking about that town in Michigan, would give their bottom teeth for all the humidity they could get, if they still had teeth.

That’s how bad it is living next to a lake of fire!

Group of exhausted people in dirty clothes around a damaged water cooler with 'Out of Order' sign in a lava-filled rocky cave
A group of thirsty people gathered around a broken water cooler in Hell

MARCUS IN THE MORNING

“Anchorage will never be the same with Mark’s passing.”

I was sad to hear that Mark Lewis (Marcus in the Morning) passed away. I listened to him going back so many years that I no longer remember the exact date. My kids would dial Marcus on the air and ask if there was going to be school.

The radio station was undoubtedly inundated with such calls. Gunnar and Miranda got a kick out of it, and Marcus seemed to take things in good humor.

One year, around the same time as the Iditarod Sled Dog race, someone came up with a wacky idea to have the “IditaTok.” This was supposed to be a pot-smoking extravaganza, but if I remember right, it was quickly shut down by police.

From that point on, I’d call Marcus each year around the start of Iditarod, and in a stoner voice, ask if he knew when the IditaTok was happening. He put me on the air several times, and I had to bite my gums to keep from cracking up. My fictitious name was “Rocky,” and I lived in Talkeetna. This was before caller ID.

When radio stations got the ability to see who was calling, I immediately ceased my joke. A good friend of Mark, Kurt Rogers, worked with me. I told him what I’d been doing for many years, and with Kurt’s creative help, we came up with a complex plan to continue things.

I’d write letters or cards and send them to friends in other states, inside another envelope, with them agreeing to forward the correspondence to Marcus, either at KFQD or KYMG radio, or later, at KTUU.

I knew some things about Mark and his family from Kurt, as well as our oldest boy, Gunnar, who went to a daycare on Baxter Road with Mark’s daughter, Heather.

The letters or cards addressed from “Rocky” with a bogus address often referred to a black Chevrolet Camaro Mark once owned. Of course, IditaTok was always brought up.

Some of Rocky’s addresses included prisons, trailer parks, and shelters for single men. In one letter, Rocky disclosed that he hit the jackpot in Vegas but quickly lost it.

This was a complex ruse, and I always kept Kurt up to speed. Jack Frost’s name was also brought up in the correspondence because Jack was a friend of my father. I made sly references to Marcus that Jack had supposedly backed into the Camaro and kept it secret.

For close to 30 years, this punking went on, even several years after Kurt passed away. There came a time that I decided to let the cat out of the bag, and through Michael Dougherty, one of Mark’s closest friends, the story was told.

I guess the joke had been driving Marcus and his co-host, April, bonkers. Kurt always told me that Mark would see things in good humor when he found out, and I’m glad he did.

Anchorage will never be the same with Mark’s passing. When God made him, he added an extra amount of humor and creativity. We were all blessed by it.

Prayers to his wife, children, and grandchildren!

Michael Hankins

Lake Havasu City, Arizona

“ROCKY” and the “IDITATOK” JOKE – I like to write junk…

CORN POP BABY

“I believe this story, except for the apology part.”

I recently wrote the song lyrics to an upbeat tune called “Corn Pop Baby.” I got the song title from a story that former President Joe Biden has told over the years about a fellow named “Corn Pop.” That name also has special meaning for me, going back almost 60 years.

Joe Biden related this tale about working as a lifeguard at a public pool in Wilmington, Delaware. He said a local tough guy nicknamed “Corn Pop” was causing trouble, and that Biden confronted him for breaking pool rules.

According to Joe, Corn Pop later waited for him outside with a group of thugs, and Biden prepared to defend himself with a chain. Joe Biden said he ultimately apologized for embarrassing Corn Pop, and the confrontation ended without a fight.

I believe this story, except for the apology part. I think Biden was trying to be politically correct here as a politician, because once the chain was put down, and with no other equalizer, this guy and his friends would’ve cleaned Joe Biden’s clock.

My brother had a similar encounter, except this thug was the person having the chain. Greg Lozano was a bully and attempted to terrorize Jim, Bob Malone, and me. In an attempt to take a Daisy BB gun from my brother, also threatening us with his chain, Jim beat the guy nearly senseless with the gun stock.

We never had any problem with Greg Lozano again. In fact, the kid would turn and go the opposite direction when he saw us. You might say my brother “corn popped” him. I now use the words to describe a fictitious dance that seniors do.

“Corn Pop Baby” will never sweep the nation, but the name alone cracks me up, just as my brother physically did to Greg Lozano in Anchorage, Alaska, so many years ago.

Man holding rusted chains surrounded by six youths on a city street in autumn

LONGTON RUMOR

“Her husband left town with a floozy from North Memphis.”

Man kneeling in snow using hand saw to cut small fir tree
  • These are lyrics to a song I’m working on. Had to be so careful not to use names of real people buried in Kansas. There is no Richard Caulkins buried in Kansas, nor Henry Joe Dixon. Linda Sue Dixon is the name from a 1968 song by the Detroit Wheels, appropriately titled “Linda Sue Dixon.” It was banned from being played on radio stations because of the initials (LSD). I didn’t know that at the time and really liked the tune. Click the link at the bottom of page.

Some residents claim a ghost,

Still walks the streets of Longton.

I’m not one to dispute,

Whether those folks are right or wrong.

*****

The story goes that a young bride,

Was sobbing one snowy Christmas,

When her husband left town,

With a floozy from North Memphis.

Ummm

*****

Local residents tried their best

But failed to console Lynda Sue Dixon.

The poor gal spent rest of her life,

Popping pills she called a prescription.

*****

Friends could only take so much.

Relationships can’t survive without love and trust.

Lynda couldn’t make it through a day,

Without her wine and pill buffet.

Ummm

*****

They say a broken heart’s hard to heal.

No matter how others may feel.

Like Humpty Dumpty, shattered beyond repair.

Distrust can turn into total despair.

*****

Miss Lynda Sue passed away

On a dark, cold January day.

In the year 1908,

When the train was runnin’ late.

*****

She was soon laid to rest

Next to an unknown grave.

That old hole filled with bones,

Scattered in total disarray.

*****

They say late last evening,

Longton’s ghost was seen crying.

Limping through streets of mud,

Past businesses no longer thriving.

*****

Trying to find a bit of solace,

from a tall tale created by gossip.

The truth of it being,

That ghost is Richard Caulkins.

Ummm

*****

What dem gadflies didn’t know,

about young Henry Joe Dixon.

Was that the man never left town,

in the arms of a copulating vixen.

*****

Henry unexpectedly died,

Harvesting Christmas trees for his wife.

Fatally shot and then buried,

by Old Man Caulkins and his boy, Jerry.

*****

Henry Dixon’s bleached white bones,

Were found just outside of Longton.

By dogs huntin’ for cagey raccoons,

Near a smelly and dank lagoon.

*****

Although Sue didn’t know at this time,

She found out in the afterlife.

The moral of this song.

Spreading rumors is more than wrong!

Amen

Three elderly women laughing and talking in front of Cedar Bluffs post office, Kansas

MUSIC MAN

“I’ve always liked writing lyrics and believe I’ll shift more in that direction.”

I’ve written some songs over the years, yet I couldn’t find anyone to sing them. Not blessed with the ability to play piano or guitar myself, I was left with unfulfilled compositions.

In one case, I sent the lyrics to a local Lake Havasu City band, yet never heard back. I was told that, like movie scripts, unsolicited song lyrics are scorned by lawyers representing musicians for fear that, if they do become a hit, the songwriter could file a lawsuit seeking additional proceeds.

Attorneys advise musicians to write their own lyrics or go through various music guilds for protection. Again, this is a ploy to control the music, as some big-name publishers try to do with books.

I recently wrote a song for my wife and was advised by a friend to have it released through AI. Not knowing what he meant, I researched the subject and found that many companies can do this. After looking at several, I finally went with a company called SUNO. I believe they did an awesome job.

AI music is made when computer programs learn from many examples of songs and sounds. These programs study patterns in music, such as melody, rhythm, harmony, instruments, and song structure. After learning these patterns, the AI can create new music based on a person’s instructions.

For example, someone might ask the AI to make a calm piano song, an upbeat pop track, or a dramatic movie-style soundtrack. The AI then uses what it has learned to generate notes, sounds, lyrics, or even a full song.

After the music is created, a person can listen to it, edit it, change the instruments, adjust the tempo, or improve the mix. In this way, AI music is made through a combination of machine learning and human creativity.

Personal lyrics can be added, with the music designer selecting instruments and singers to complete the composition. What this amounts to is that music writers no longer have to solicit bands and orchestras, nor do the writers have to belong to music guilds, which are nothing more than unions with their greedy hands out.

I was able to fine-tune my selection by choosing which instruments I wanted, the song’s genre (mostly country/pop), and singers of both sexes. It has a country-western twang that fits the lyrics about a girl named Joleen and a rural Kansas town named Hawkeye.

The name of this song is “Hawkeye” and can be heard on my YouTube site. I recorded it from the initial cut with my camera, so the acoustics aren’t quite right, unlike on the original. I’m still learning audio as I go along.

What does this all mean? The average Joe or Mary can now write music and have it professionally represented without having to kiss some music guild’s patooney.

As a writer, I tried working with publishing companies that wouldn’t give me the time of day. They were the final hurdle in getting things published until self-publishing came along. Now, I get voice messages all the time from representatives at publishing houses asking me to work with them on future projects. I never call them back.

I’ve always liked writing lyrics and believe I’ll shift more in that direction. The time is already here when AI songs have hit the top, especially in the UK. The US is fighting the influx of AI-generated music not just on traditional radio but across streaming platforms.

This push is led by major labor unions and the U.S. Copyright Office, culminating in federal legislation, state laws, and massive industry lawsuits. I laugh each time I hear one of these groups has lost.

The music industry is trying to keep them out of this country for monetary reasons, but they won’t be successful for long. A good song is a good song, no matter who creates it.

“The Archies” proved 57 years ago that a successful virtual band, made up of unknown musicians specifically for a cartoon series, was possible. If Archie, Betty, Veronica, Reggie, and Jughead can make good tunes, almost anyone can!

Four band members performing on stage with guitars, keyboard, and tambourine in front of an audience, banner reads The Archies
The Archies perform live on stage with energetic crowd support.

ORNERY OLD FARTS

“My garage wall is a poor man’s art gallery with a Dodge Challenger poster and a signed Rick Mears Pennzoil poster.”

Four older men sitting at a wooden table in a pub, each wearing 'Old Guys Rule' shirts, holding glasses of beer and smiling

A friend gave me a novelty Alaska license plate saying Old Fart and I have it hanging on my garage wall. The phrase ‘Old Fart’ is a humorous slang term for an older person, often used teasingly to suggest someone is aging, stubborn, or a little cranky. I know many guys and gals fitting that description including myself.

Next to it is a Florida plate reading ‘Arrive Alive’ printed in orange and black. This license plate is all dented and banged up, evidently after surviving an accident.  It’s one of those material things that speaks to me, saying “Ouch” each time I look at it.

My wife added her own novelty plate. It’s an Arizona version saying ‘Mamacita.’ This means something like little mama in Spanish, but in everyday use, it often means pretty lady, sweetheart, or attractive woman. A friend in Alaska, Janice Cross, always calls Joleen that, and I must agree.

My garage wall is a poor man’s art gallery with a Dodge Challenger poster and a signed Rick Mears Pennzoil poster. Most young gearheads probably don’t even know who Rick or Roger Mears is.

I have a vintage street-crossing apparatus with a still-working chrome button, Harley-Davidson memorabilia, a Nigel Mansell-signed and framed poster, a TRW engine parts poster, a Sealed Power ad, and a giant photo of my former 1968 Plymouth GTX. After owning it for 46 years, I should’ve kept that car.

A Lightning Bolt T-shirt is inside a shadow box frame with a photo of my daughter, Miranda, wearing it as a night shirt. Last but not least is a black silhouette of Spuds McKenzie.

I used the Spuds image when I gave a fictitious eulogy for the famous Bud Light English Bull Terrier during a speech class. That speech got rousing applause from the young audience.

I’ve mentioned my Old Guys Rule tee shirts before. The kids gave me a couple for birthdays, as did my wife, and I purchased a few more choice ones. I like to wear them when we go out for dinner. It’s been at least a year since I walked by a table full of gals my own age, and I heard one of them loudly cackle before saying, “I don’t think so!”

She was evidently referring to the message on my shirt. It’s too bad they don’t make one with Donald Trump’s caricature on the front, having the same wording, because that would’ve had the whole table clucking.

Searching through Google, I found several businesses that can make exactly what I want for a reasonable price. It’s amazing what can be screen-printed on clothing these days.

Telling my wife of the idea to have a custom-made tee with a photo of Donald Trump wearing a crown on his head, and the words Old Guys Rule written above it, she said, “You really are an ornery old cuss!” I’ll take that as a compliment because it’s definitely better to be ornery than disornery.

Man walking on city sidewalk wearing a black T-shirt with a gold crown and the word 'TRUMP'

FASHIONABLY LATE

“In social circles, arriving after things are underway can draw more attention, especially in church.”

Cowboy holding reins of three saddled horses on dusty street with old Western storefronts in background

After turning 70, I don’t like being rushed, because when this happens, I generally do something stupid, like forget my wallet or important paperwork for a doctor’s appointment.

My wife has been using a familiar term ever since we met, most likely because she hails from a Midwestern background. Being born and raised in Kansas. Joleen uses it a lot when I’m ready to go somewhere, and she’s not, which is often.

“Hold your horses” means slow down, wait, or be patient—especially when someone is acting too quickly or getting ahead of themselves. The phrase dates to the days when horses were a major mode of transportation. If a driver or rider needed to stop or slow a team of horses, they would literally hold the reins to keep the horses under control.

Over time, it became a figurative expression meaning “don’t rush.” It has been used in English since at least the 1800s, and it became common in everyday speech in the United States, especially with the influence of horse-drawn travel and later Western/cowboy culture.

“Cool your jets!” is the expression I often use. The phrase comes from the jet age, when jet engines became familiar symbols of speed, power, and urgency. To cool your jets suggests reducing the heat, thrust, or intensity—basically, take your foot off the ‘hurry pedal.’

It likely became common in American English in the mid-20th century, especially as airplanes, rockets, and jet propulsion became part of everyday imagination after World War II and into the space-race era.

“Take a chill pill” is another way to tell someone to ease off. Historically, it’s a much newer phrase than “Hold your horses.” It seems to have become popular in American slang in the 1980s and 1990s, especially among younger speakers.

The phrase plays on the idea of taking a pill to change your mood—like a tranquilizer or anti-anxiety medication—but it is usually not meant literally. Instead, chill comes from slang meaning relaxed, calm, or easygoing, and pill gives the phrase a humorous, exaggerated sound.

It also fits the pop-culture language of that era, when people said things like chill out, take it easy, and relax. “Take a chill pill” is basically a more playful version of “Calm down.” Because of the pill image, it can sound a little cheekier than “Cool your jets” or “Hold your horses.”

All of this brings me to, “What’s the big hurry?” Ultimately, that’s the question I ask myself each time I get ready to go somewhere. Being ‘fashionably late’ is accepted among the Hollywood and elitist crowd, and the expression generally means arriving a little after the stated time, not so late that it becomes rude or disruptive, but late enough to appear relaxed, confident, or socially in demand.

In social circles, arriving after things are underway can draw more attention, especially in church. There was an older couple at a former church who were fashionably late almost every Sunday. I believe it was to show off the wife’s new hat as she wore a different one each service. The woman definitely knew how to pick them.

I’ve yet to arrive at a doctor’s appointment late, but there’s bound to be a time when I do. My big question here is, “Do I sashay when I enter the waiting room?” For those not knowing what sashay is, it means to walk in a confident, noticeable, and sometimes exaggerated way, often with a bit of style, flair, or attitude.

When someone sashays into a room, they are not simply walking in quietly; they are moving as if they know people may be watching, often with a smooth, swaying motion that can make the entrance seem playful, dramatic, or self-assured. It’s too bad Mrs. Humphrey isn’t around to teach me.

Elderly couple walking out of a church decorated with flowers and Easter banners

THUMP THIS

Three people selecting watermelons from a large wooden bin labeled Summer Harvest
Three people choose fresh watermelons at a grocery store’s summer harvest display

I watched my grandmother thump watermelons going back to the 1950s. Mom did the same. I was told that thumping can tell a buyer just which one to choose. I believe it’s more of a ritual than anything scientific, with the thumper merely acting as if they know a good watermelon from a bad one.

Not once have I seen a younger person ask an older adult to thump their melon. They do it themselves, not having an inkling what they’re listening for. If their grandparents instructed them it was probably erroneous information to begin with.

People supposedly thump watermelons because the sound can indicate ripeness and internal texture. When you tap or thump a watermelon, shoppers are usually listening for a deep, hollow, resonant sound. That can suggest the melon has a high-water content and a mature interior.

A dull, flat, or overly dense sound may suggest the melon is underripe, overripe, mealy, or less juicy—though it’s not a perfect test. The practice likely goes back centuries, because people have long used sound to judge the quality of fruits and containers—similar to tapping barrels, gourds, or squash. No wonder so many yellow squash look as if they’ve been abused.

Watermelons have been cultivated for thousands of years, with origins in Africa, but the specific habit of “thumping” watermelons is difficult to date precisely because it was mostly a folk practice passed down informally rather than documented in writing.

I’ve tried to discern the sound of a good watermelon over a bad one by flicking my index finger on the outside. Since I have poor hearing, they all sound the same. The only true means would be to core drill to the inside, but that’s not allowed unless it’s in your own garden.

Mama Haynes grew watermelons, and they were generally always good. She used real cow and horse manure as fertilizer, saying that it made the soil sweet. I had to look this up.

Horse and cow manure are used as fertilizer because they add nutrients to the soil and improve the soil’s ability to hold water and air. As manure breaks down, it releases nutrients such as nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium, which help plants grow strong roots, leaves, vines, flowers, and fruit.

It also adds organic matter, which helps sandy soil retain moisture and loosens heavy clay soil, making it easier for roots to grow. Manure also feeds the tiny organisms in the soil that help break down plant material and turn it into food plants can use.

Fresh manure can be too strong for plants, so it’s usually better to use it after it has aged or been composted before working it into the garden. Aged manure is less likely to burn plants, spread weed seeds, or carry harmful germs. The cardinal rule before using is: “If the pile is green, save it ’til next spring!”

I’ve never lived on a farm, nor do I have a green thumb. If I did, my motto for using animal dung as fertilizer would be a bit more logical. “If the pile is reeking, hungry flies are still eating!”

These days, when I purchase watermelon, I buy the sliced and prepackaged trays because I can see what I’m getting. Some will say this is more expensive, but when I bought a whole melon, a good portion of it ended up being thrown out.

The practice of thumping melons will undoubtedly continue long after I’m gone. Perhaps someday, an X-ray device will be available to peer inside things. Although I’m not going to buy a whole melon anymore, I still thump them as a personal tribute of sorts to my late mother and Mama Haynes.

Man in yellow safety vest scanning watermelons with a handheld scanner at market
A woman X-raying watermelons at a grocery store using a handheld device

BAKER’S DOZEN

“To add more drama to the scene I placed both hands behind my back as if I was being handcuffed.”

Security guard assisting elderly woman scanning box of donuts at grocery store self-checkout

I asked a local bakery employee in a grocery store the other day if they offered a baker’s dozen on donuts. The young lady said yes and gave me the price. When I asked if that was for 13, she looked at me as if I were crazy. “No, a dozen is 12!” It was easy to see the gal didn’t know what a baker’s dozen was.

A baker’s dozen means 13 instead of 12, and its history is usually traced to medieval English baking laws—not specifically donuts at first. In medieval England, bread was heavily regulated because it was a staple food. Bakers could be punished for selling underweight loaves.

Since bread weight could vary after baking due to moisture loss, bakers often added an extra loaf when selling a dozen to ensure the customer received at least the required number.

Over time, that “extra” became known as a baker’s dozen. Where donuts are concerned, the phrase carried over naturally because donuts—like bread rolls, pastries, and bagels—are commonly sold by the dozen.

A donut shop offering 13 donuts for the price of 12 is continuing that old “extra one to be safe or generous” tradition, though today it’s more of a customer-friendly bonus or marketing gesture than a legal precaution.

I decided to check around to see if this bakery was the only one not following the old English tradition, and they weren’t. It seems that with the increase in price, a baker’s dozen has been reduced back to 12. Never mind that when you pay, and change is due, you’ll also be shafted any Lincoln pennies.

I believe it’s hocus-pocus how stores now advertise “deals,” as they like to call them. Older folks like me have to carefully read the small print on signs to see just what we’ll be paying.

I don’t know how many times I scanned an item only to see the regular price instead of the sale price at the end of a transaction. Walking back to read the sign, I discovered I needed to purchase another 11 to get the lower price.

Special offers can also be confusing and are undoubtedly subject to change in the near future. BOGO (buy one – get one) will mean exactly that. Folks will be stupefied when they look at their receipt and see they’ve just paid for two.

Shouldn’t this have been BOGT (buy one – get two) to begin with? This reminds me of tactics used by car lots in the 60s and 70s to leave customers mystified. A car would be advertised for a certain price on television, and when a customer came in expecting to buy it, they’d be told it was sold.

Perhaps I am making a mountain out of a molehill. A friend says that when she’s buying a dozen donuts, a thirteenth is stuck in the box without fear. “Who’s gonna open the box and count them?”

It’d be my luck that a store clerk would nab me as I walked away, or worse yet, the AI security camera in the self-checkout would spot things. This actually happened to me with grapes.

I’d placed a sack of them on the scale and in a hurry to get going, picked them up, and put them in the bag without hitting ‘accept weight.’ Everything locked up immediately ─ with a black & white grainy video showing my mistake. The clerk corrected things and said it happens all the time.

By then, those standing in line behind me were watching. To add more drama to the scene I placed both hands behind my back as if I was being handcuffed. Most folks chuckled except one.

The donuts I buy generally go to the chemotherapy lab in Kingman. If they’re short a couple of donuts from here on out it won’t matter as I always take them two dozen.

One thing I’ve been planning on doing but haven’t thus far, is the next time that automated AI produce scale asks if I accept the weight, I’ll decline, just to see what happens. I’m sure I’m not the only person wanting to do that. Will lights and buzzers go off? My wife says that she doesn’t want to be around to see.

Grocery store worker using digital scale to weigh bananas